Page 28 of Fueled Hate

“I’ll give him a call, but he’s old enough to fend for himself, so I don’t keep tabs on his every move.”

“Mom would’ve.” I regret the words before they’re out, but it’s the honest truth. Mom would’ve made sure Levi was keeping up with school, attending practice, and making it safely home, or at least know for certain whose house he was sleeping at.

“Yeah. She would’ve,” Dad says so low I can barely make out his words, though I can certainly make out the pain.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, Sadie. I need to get to the shop.” He pauses in the kitchen doorway, hesitating as he looks back to me. “I know I’ll never measure up to the parent she was, but I’m doing the best I can.” He doesn’t wait for a response before leaving me alone in the deafeningly silent kitchen.

“I know. I’m doing the best I can too,” I whisper, guilt eating away at my soul. Grabbing my phone, I dial Levi’s number only to get his voice mail, so I disconnect the call and send him a text.

Me: I’m at the house. Where are you? Wanted to see you before I headed back to school.

I stare at the phone, not receiving a response. After five excruciatingly long minutes, I head to my room and slip on a pair of shorts and T-shirt, twisting my hair into a messy bun.

I might not be able to see Levi before I head back to school, but I want to at least make sure he’s okay. He’s been avoiding me even more recently.

Picking up my phone, I start to type out a message to my dad but quickly erase it. There’s nothing that sounds right to send. There’s no way I want to leave things feeling even more out of sorts than usual. The flat tire. It’s a good reason to swing by the shop. Even without an excuse, I’d be stopping by because I need to apologize to him again.

As I’m pulling up to the shop, my phone dings with a message.

Levi: Busy. I’ll see you next time.

While the context of the message doesn’t bring me comfort, him actually responding does.

Me: Okay. I’ll see you later. Be safe.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t get a response.

Pulling the release, I pop the trunk hatch and step out of my car. Walking to the back of the Mustang, I lift the flat tire out of the trunk.

“Let me help you with that, Sadie,” Mr. George says, his hands replacing mine as he rolls the wobbly tire into the garage bay.

“Thanks, Mr. George.” He is one of the kindest and hardest working employees at my dad’s shop, so it’s no shock that he’s also the employee who’s been here the longest. Every time my dad mentions to George that he should retire, he won’t listen to it. George says he’d be bored at home and his wife would make him travel. Most people would love to travel out of the small town of Staffordsville, Texas, but Mr. George says there’s no other place he wants to be.

“The shop in Sunland replaced the valve stem a few days ago, but it went flat again.”

Mr. George examines it, grabbing a few tools as he gets to work on it. “I’ll get it fixed up for you.”

“Thank you.” I move to walk away but look back at the tire then to Mr. George. “Is there any way to tell if it’s been tampered with?”

He freezes, looking up to me through his scuffed-up safety glasses. “Someone up there giving you a hard time?”

“No. I was just wondering because it happened again so fast.”

Slowly he looks away, studying the valve stem carefully as he says, “It doesn’t look like anyone has messed with it. Sometimes you can just get a faulty one. If it happens again, come and see me. We’ll either get the tire taken care of or the buster messing with you.”

“Sounds good. I doubt anyone did it intentionally.” But I’m not completely relieved yet. “Thanks so much again for fixing it. I’m gonna go find my dad.”

“Frank’s in his office.” He stays on task as he waves me off. A few other employees say hi as I make my way to my dad’s office. It has the same smell of stale coffee and old motor oil. Why it’s comforting, I don’t know, but there’s no other smell like it.

Knocking on the wood door, I push it open a few inches until my dad spots me, waving me in with the phone up to his ear.

Stepping inside the office that hasn’t been redecorated since the ’90s, I sit in the leather chair, its splices scratching the bare skin of my thighs. My mom always told Dad she would spruce up his office, but he said he wasn’t in it enough to worry about hanging curtains or having fancy furniture. It’d be “covered in oil and grease before it made it into the building” was his automatic response.

“Yeah, sure. Friday is good. Sadie’s here. I’ll catch up with you later.” He doesn’t wait for a response, immediately clicking the phone, and dropping it on his desk. “I didn’t know you were gonna stop by.”

“My tire. The valve stem was leaking again.”